


...and the little one said "roll over"

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's quite a while to stay in someone else's bed," John remarked.</p><p>Five times Sherlock and John slept together, and one time they decidedly didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...and the little one said "roll over"

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand and one thank-yous to my spectacularific sister ad_astra_03! This woman sparked my obsession with BBC Sherlock and has since read through every fannish thing I've ever written and has given me many ideas.

The first time it happened, John was having a good dream. He floated heavily in a pool of warm water while glass butterflies hung suspended in the air around him, glittering merrily. There was a frog next to him, sitting on a lily pad. It wore a blue scarf.

"Move over, John," the frog hissed quietly.

John blearily opened his eyes, and the first things he saw were red digital numbers reading 2:07 in the morning.

"Whauzzima?" he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

"Move. Over. I'm cold."

"Wha' th' hell you doin', Sherl'ck?" John asked balefully, scooting over a few inches, unaware that Sherlock would take this opportunity to slip between the covers and nestle himself into John's warm bed.

"Heater's out in my room.  _Free_ zing. You aren't. Solution: go where it's warm and stay there for at least a century."

Only the furry top of Sherlock's head could be seen out from under the comforter, and his voice was more than a little muffled.

"That's quite a while to stay in someone else's bed," John remarked. He was waking up, slowly, and it finally seemed to dawn on him that Sherlock was going to be sleeping in his bed that night. It probably should have been distressing, but at that time in the morning the only thing that would really distress John would be waking up with his pants on fire. Not that he'd put it past his flat-mate, however. Stranger things had been known to happen.

Sherlock stuck his head a little farther out from under the sheets, so John could see his grey eyes glare up at him. "Whatever. Pretend I'm not here. Go to sleep."

John sighed and closed his eyes again—if Sherlock was going to inflict his icicle self on John's bed, John might as well sleep through it.

"Augh! Get your cold feet off my  _thigh_!"

"But you're so  _warm_ , John."

"I'd like to stay that way, thanks!"

"Hrmph."

"Sherlock—ngh. Look, if you're going to lie on top of me, don't be such a fucking dead weight."

"You're a comfortable pillow, John."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You do that."

 

* * *

The second time it happened, John was sick. He lay on the couch, watching crap telly and wishing he wasn't so bloody  _cold_ —Mrs. Hudson had forced enough herbal tea down his throat to last a lifetime, but the scalding heat of it didn't seem to take. His feet were ice. His nose had turned a very unattractive shade of red.

Dozing, John drifted in the space between sleep and waking, occasionally rousing himself to check if he could take more ibuprofen.

Sherlock was worryingly quiet—John knew from experience that things got destroyed more often after a long period of silence than in the midst of a real case. Everything seemed to be intact, however, and John didn't care to summon up the energy to call out for him.

Sherlock was an adult. He could take care of himself.

Probably.

Some time later, after slipping through slumber for another forty-five minutes or so, John realized his feet weren't nearly as cold as they were a moment ago—upon looking across the couch, he discovered a dressing-gowned Sherlock sitting Indian style on the seat next to him and staring intently at the telly screen.

John's feet were tucked against Sherlock's warm legs, and someone who John assumed was Sherlock had thrown a brown afghan over the two of them. John felt a smile tug at the edges of his mouth.

"John, why do parents deem this program appropriate for small children?" Sherlock sounded more than a little disturbed.

John inclined his head slightly to look at the telly and was met with an eyeful of teletubby. He snickered quietly. Murders, no problem. Children's TV?  _That_  was what scarred Sherlock for life?

"Dunno, Sherlock. People are naturally idiots."

" _Yes!_  Oh…you're mocking me."

"Only a little."

John grinned to himself and snuggled further into the sofa, pulling the top of the blanket around his shoulders.

Sherlock "hmph"ed but didn't complain when John stretched his feet across his lap.

 

* * *

The third time was purely accidental. The two of them had solved a case in France as a favor to Lestrade—boy, John had wished he'd paid more attention in his language classes as a kid—and the return train ride home under the Chunnel was a pain in the arse. It didn't help that John hadn't gotten more than two hours sleep at a time for over a week. Really, it was getting quite ridiculous.

Truly, he hadn't meant to slump over and lean on Sherlock's wooly coated shoulder. But it looked so  _warm_  and  _fuzzy_ … John never really stood a chance.

He woke wrapped up in Sherlock's coat with his companion gently shaking him, telling him it was time to get off the train.

 

* * *

The fourth time only happened because Sherlock was drugged on a case, and a high Sherlock was a puddle of giggly goo.

"Did you know you're made of  _kittens?_ " Sherlock asked him seriously before dissolving into snickers once more.

"No, can't say I did. Thanks." John grunted while heaving Sherlock up the steps into 221B.

"Well, you are. It's kind of stupid. But a good kind of stupid. Y'know?"

John looked down at the bundle of wool and Sherlock that he was dragging alongside him and sighed at the earnest grey eyes. "I have to admit that I have no idea what you're talking about, 'Lock."

Sherlock suddenly stood and pinned him against a wall, staring keenly into John's eyes with an intensity that really scared the shit out of John.

"You're stupid, but you're very important. To the world. To me. I hope you know that," Sherlock said quietly, forcefully. He buried his face in the crook of John's neck. "You're really much better than the skull."

John was about to reply, probably telling Sherlock to look up the dictionary definition of  _personal space_ , but Sherlock was snoring. So John performed a feat that should've had ballads written about it and heaved the prone form into his arms bridal style, finished their excursion up the stairs, and deposited Sherlock on the bed. He found himself too tired to move, or even change, and fell onto the mattress with a  _plop!_  and was out for the count within two minutes.

Sherlock remembered none of it in the morning. John thought that was more than a little unfair.

 

* * *

The fifth time wasn't John's fault at all, honestly. He'd been snoozing innocently in his bed, and  _may_ be he'd taken the extra flannel blanket, but it was shared property. And  _may_ be it was Sherlock's turn, but it was cold, damn it, so John couldn't really be blamed.

Okay, maybe he brought it on himself, but come on, he was turning into a bloody icicle.

Some time in the late evening, around eleven thirty at night, John was roused with a yelp by someone swishing the blankets off his bed. Not just the thermal.  _All of them._

John sat up in time to see Sherlock saunter out of the room with an armful of bedding.

That was it. That meant WAR.

John growled, slipped on a pair of thick socks, and slid off his bare mattress.  Padding down the hallway, John snuck up to Sherlock's bedroom door, slowly reached a hand out to the knob—and found it locked. Goddamn.

Well, living with the world's only consulting detective had its perks, including the fact that John had learned to pick locks when he had to.

And he knew where the lock-picks were kept.

Really, Sherlock made it all too easy.

Chuckling quietly, already congratulating himself on a job well done, John jimmied around with the thin pieces of metal until he felt the lock give. He swung the door open with a triumphant cry.

Sherlock was curled up in a ball on the floor, his long limbs entangled in a nest of sheets.

John made a surprised noise, and he stopped in the doorway—the sight was almost  _adorable_.

Sherlock gave a very unconvincing snore.

Smirking, John took two silent steps forward, crouched, then attacked him with his hands, tickling as much as he could.

Sherlock, who considered himself an extremely dignified person, was decidedly less regal as he cackled madly, giggling in convulsions on the carpeted floor.

"Ahaha! No! John! HA! I  _hate you!_ "

John, laughing along with him, tickled harder. Sherlock gasped for air, a wide uncontrollable smile splitting his face from the tickling.

John saw his opportunity: Sherlock had unintentionally disentangled himself from John's bedcovers. He abruptly ceased the onslaught and snatched the tangled nest back and sprinted out of the room, Sherlock's indignant cry chasing after him.

John could hear the patter of Sherlock's feet behind as he ran, and he realized he was running through the apartment with his arms full of linen and an angry sociopath charging after.

John's laugh was almost manic.

When they both came to a stop, they looked at each other for a long moment, breath coming in pants, and they started laughing again together, their grins so wide they almost hurt. John threw the sheets on the ground, grabbed a couple pillows from the sofa and made another nest. When he sat he yanked Sherlock's wrist down so he would join him.

Sherlock's surprised inhalation was smothered by the pillow he received to his face when he lost his balance.

No longer cold—what with all the running—John fell asleep with his fingers entwined with Sherlock's and slept for a solid four hours before Sherlock felt a need to get up at 3:45 in the morning and play the violin.

 

* * *

"Alright. I'm gonna go get those groceries. Be back in an hour."

John leaned around the arm of the sofa and pressed a quick kiss to one of Sherlock's high cheekbones. Sherlock muttered an "mm-hmm", but his eyes didn't waver from the microscope he'd dragged to the coffee table—a type of mold had been found on the latest dead body, and Sherlock thought it was one of the most fascinating things he'd ever seen.

It really grossed John out, though. Mold just shouldn't be orange.

"Do try not to get into any more arguments with the checking machines," Sherlock said with a slight smile.

"Oh, shut up," John called over his shoulder just before he closed the door.

Sherlock was still at it when John returned, so he resigned himself to an evening with a book instead of something more… interesting. God. He couldn't believe he was feeling jealous over a piece of  _mold._

Sticking a plate of leftovers in the microwave, John considered turning in early. He certainly wouldn't be missing much. Sighing, he reached for a glass and began to fill it under the tap.

Life was sometimes so  _unfair._

John jumped and dropped the glass into the sink when long arms curled around his waist and a pointy chin was placed on his shoulder. Dark hair tickled his chin.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John gasped.

"The orange substance isn't  _mold_ , John. It's a rare type of pollen." Sherlock sounded incredibly smug, and John could feel the smirk against his cheek.

"Well, that's got to tell you a lot."

"Surprisingly little, actually. So, I'm frustrated. Care to help me out?"

The timbre of Sherlock's voice dropped until it slipped from baritone into sultry. John gulped.

"Uh, okay. That's—cool. Yeah. Good. Let's."

Sherlock snorted.

"So  _predictable_ , John."

John sighed, tilting his head to look at Sherlock's eyes—the pupils were dilated. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, and felt a twinge of satisfaction when Sherlock's eyes followed the motion with a rapt attention: hey, he wasn't the only one who was predictable.

"Let's go to bed," John whispered, leaning forward until his lips grazed the shell of Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock's eyes darkened, and he bent, picking John up with a yank and began to stride in the direction of the stairs.

"Hey!" John yelped.  _Damn_  that man was strong.

"It's faster this way," Sherlock explained, then kissed John almost desperately and kicked the bedroom door open.

They didn't sleep much that night.

But John wasn't complaining.

 


End file.
